


fear of the water

by renesaramis (orphan_account)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arranged Marriage, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Domestic Violence, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Miscarriage, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Suicide Attempt, Underage Drinking, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:34:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24423604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/renesaramis
Summary: Effie Trinket is District 12's new escort, married to an influential Gamemaker. But Haymitch is doomed to want the things he cannot have, and the pair find themselves playing a game much more dangerous than the one their tributes are playing.
Relationships: Finnick Odair & Effie Trinket, Haymitch Abernathy & Chaff, Haymitch Abernathy & Finnick Odair, Haymitch Abernathy/Effie Trinket
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	fear of the water

**Author's Note:**

> OK, hi! This fic deals with a lot. Please heed the tags carefully. The rape/child sexual abuse/domestic violence is a very big theme in this fic, so if any of these triggers you, _please_ take caution, or find a different fic. It's not worth triggering yourself for a story on the internet!

He meets her as Euphemia Gataki, and she is barely a week short of eighteen years, younger than this year’s male tribute. She’s engaged already.

Both tributes die in the bloodbath. Haymitch watches her out of the corner of his eye; the way she freezes, eyes wide in horror. The version of the Games she’s used to watching is toned down for maximum entertainment, but here, the screens leave nothing to the imagination. It is brutal.

But she swallows down whatever she’s feeling and turns to him. ‘I really thought they’d have a chance,’ she says quietly. ‘At least there’s always next year.’

Haymitch shakes his head, more at her naivety than anything else. He picks up the bottle of whiskey to his left and takes a long swig.

She seems to take the hint because she doesn’t mention the tributes again. Instead, she begins talking about her wedding, and the man curses himself. Why couldn’t Snow have given him an actual _woman_ instead of this child parading as an adult? She should be sat at home with her fiancé, not talking about dead children with a drunken victor.

He takes another drink as she rambles on about her colour scheme; how he proposed — Haymitch finally learns the man is called Trinket — which isn’t very romantic, considering he can smell from a mile away that this marriage is clearly arranged to increase Euphemia’s social status; where they are marrying; who her bridesmaids will be; and literally every other part of her wedding she can think of.

Soon enough, she realises that he isn’t actually listening to her, and her voice trails off halfway through talking about the Victorian flower language. She sits silently next to him; realistically, Haymitch doesn’t know why he hasn’t left yet. He could go sit with Chaff, share a bottle with him, but part of him feels sorry for the girl.

 _Yet another child forced into a game_ , he thinks bitterly.

On the screen, seven cannons fire, signalling the tributes’ deaths. Euphemia sneaks another glance at him when she thinks he doesn’t see, and he sighs sharply. And then, at the noise, she flushes, turning away with a quiet squeak of surprise.

She’s made up, although not as heavily as most Capitolites; her hair is dyed bubble-gum pink and rests at her shoulders in a wavy bob. Maybe she thinks it makes her look grown, but to Haymitch she looks like a child playing dress-up. He scowls into his whiskey.

A whisper comes from the opposite end of the couch. ‘I’m scared.’

For a moment, he isn’t sure what she’s talking about. He looks up at the screen again, expecting to see a brutal kill or torture performed at the hands of a few ruthless Careers, but there’s nothing overly dramatic to see; the female District 11 tribute is looking for shelter, climbing over a few mossy rocks and heading towards what Haymitch thinks might be a recreation of an abandoned village.

He scowls again, at the screen this time.

Of course, the damn girl is scared. She’s about to marry a man over twice her age; hell, he’s older than Haymitch. He knows who Frediano Trinket is, now that he thinks about it, and the old bastard is as cold and frigid as they get. No doubt he’s looking for another vulnerable girl to fuck, and he’s absolutely loaded because his father was friends with Snow back when they were both younger. If the rumours are true, he isn’t gentle with his lovers, either.

Haymitch winces. He does _not_ envy poor Euphemia.

* * *

The next year, he does not meet Euphemia Gataki. She makes it perfectly clear: she’s Effie Trinket now, and Effie Trinket is not a child.

How could she ever be, now?

She steps onto District 12’s makeshift stage with an air of false elegance that only Haymitch knows is staged, along with her fake positivity, her excessive amount of makeup, and a large, curled wig upon her head.

He wonders, briefly, what happened to the bubble-gum hair.

Her attitude fades the moment they are alone on the train, without the ~~children~~ tributes. She sinks into the seat, watching as Haymitch fills up another glass of brandy. Her eyes don’t leave the glass, not even when he downs it and waits for her to speak.

She looks exhausted; she’s got this glassy look in her eyes, as though she’s about to cry but she grits her teeth together and forces some words out of her mouth. ‘I want a glass.’

Haymitch snorts. ‘Sure, kid.’

He goes easy on her, pouring about a third of a glass, and he slides it across the table towards her. Effie takes a swig — she’s been watching him more than he thought, apparently — and chokes on the sharpness of it.

‘Don’t die, yeah?’ he says, but after a couple coughs, she seems alright, and takes another, smaller sip. ‘I don’t wanna be accused of tryna kill my escort.’

She huffs quietly, her mouth turning upwards in a shy smile.

‘How’d the wedding go, then? I take it you didn’t get jilted at the altar.’

Immediately, Haymitch knows it was the wrong thing to say, because her smile disappears almost immediately, and she snaps her eyes away from him.

He doesn’t get anything more out of her that night, not even after the Tributes’ Parade. She fusses over the girl, who is only fourteen, and encourages the boy, but she doesn’t speak to Haymitch at all.

She doesn’t go home to her husband, either, and he hears her shower running for at least an hour before she shuts it off.

The next morning, after the first training session starts, he heads down to where Chaff, Seeder and Finnick are sat, and sinks heavily into the nearest chair.

‘Escort getting on your nerves?’ asks Chaff gruffly, passing a bottle to him.

‘Not yet,’ he responds, taking a swig. He swills it around in his mouth before swallowing, contemplating the question he’s about to ask. Haymitch knows he has to be delicate, but Haymitch Abernathy and delicate don’t usually mix.

‘Tiny thing, isn’t she?’ asks Seeder. ‘She looks like a little doll.’

Haymitch shrugs. ‘I guess. Tell me … what do you know about Frediano Trinket?’

Chaff scowls deeply. ‘Whatta you wanna know about him for?’ He snatches the bottle back and gulps back the liquid. ‘He thinks girls are playthings and he owns ‘em all.’

‘Must rent just about every girl he can,’ adds Finnick quietly.

Haymitch can’t stop the dark frown from clouding his face. ‘He’s Effie’s husband.’

Seeder gives him a look of concern. ‘Oh, the poor dear,’ she murmurs. ‘Is that even legal?’

‘Married just after she turned eighteen, so yeah.’

‘Yeah, no,’ says Chaff. ‘Probably been engaged since her first bleed. I don’t doubt he ain’t had his wicked way with ‘er since then, as well.’

Haymitch swallows. His throat is thick with an emotion he can’t describe, something between anger at this asshole and a desire to protect a Capitol escort he barely knows. He snatches the bottle from Chaff’s hand and takes four fierce drinks, ignoring the burn at the back of his throat.

Nobody speaks.

It is a silent understanding; an equal share of disgust that they feel, and Finnick looks sadly towards the District 12 mentor, waiting for an outburst that doesn’t come.

* * *

Effie joins Haymitch and the tributes for dinner, and he notices. He picks up the way she lowers herself gently onto the chair; the way she masks her pain; the way she barely eats.

Another reminder that Trinket is _never_ gentle.

The pair are still sitting there, in silence, long after the kids have discussed their training and left to shower. He sits, drinking glass after glass, watching her push several pieces of farfalle around her plate; he is certain that the feeling of helplessness is worse than anything, so Haymitch pours another glass of whiskey and nods towards Effie questioningly. She shakes her head, finally putting down her fork.

He knew she wasn’t going to eat, anyway. He wouldn’t have any appetite if it were him.

He wants to ask her if she’s alright, but he already knows she won’t say anything against her husband, especially not in a place where the walls have ears, for fear of it getting back to him.

Stupidly, Haymitch wonders if he hits her. But then he remembers that he’s already going so far as to rape her, so perhaps there’s nothing that is ‘too far’ for Mr. Trinket.

‘We should start preparing them for their interviews,’ he says instead. ‘Maybe you take the girl, and I take the boy. You can teach her how to curtsey and walk in heels.’

Effie doesn’t respond.

He feels wrong for thinking that she’ll get used to it, but he doesn’t know whether he means the tributes being brutally slaughtered every year, or her husband forcing a fuck out of her whenever he gets bored.

He doesn’t hear the shower tonight. He hears _her_ , though. She’s crying, probably sat on the bathroom floor, but he doesn’t know what it is she’s crying over. It doesn’t seem right, a man like him stood outside her door, listening in with a bottle of rum in one hand, so he goes to bed and tries not to think about the fact that his District’s escort is an eighteen-year-old girl who has spent her entire adolescence being raped by a man older than even him.

* * *

This year, neither of their tributes die in the bloodbath. The girl dies shortly afterward, in a skirmish between the District 6 female over some berries that turned out to be poisonous anyway. The boy, seventeen and from the Seam, does remarkably well until he drowns in the flooding arena, and Haymitch watches Effie’s eyes as she takes it all in.

‘That’s the worst way to die,’ she says softly, looking from him to Finnick, who has decided to join them. ‘Drowning. It takes _ages_ because all the water fills up your lungs …’ She trails off when she realises that they’re both looking at her in bewilderment.

‘I’ll remember that if I ever want to die,’ says Haymitch dryly, ignoring Finnick’s sharp intake of breath.

His escort wordlessly gets up and leaves the room, so Finnick scoots over and clears his throat.

‘So she …’

Haymitch waves him off discreetly. ‘Probably. Looks like your girl’s going to win this. Congratulations.’

‘Look —’ he starts, but Haymitch shakes his head.

‘Not what I meant. But if we talk about that … _man_ anymore, I might accidentally end up in the Gamemakers’ room, smashing a bottle on his head.’

‘Be sure to invite me when you do.’

He raises a glass towards Finnick. _To beating the shit out of Effie’s husband_ , he thinks, smirking at the way the kid’s lips quirk up as he tries to work out what the silent toast is for.

Maybe he gets it. Maybe he doesn’t.

Haymitch isn’t sure.

* * *

She sends him a letter. He tears open the purple envelope with his knife and pulls out the paper, which immediately deposits a handful of glitter into his lap. He swears under his breath and begins to read. It’s a vapid read which talks about how she is looking forward to this year’s Games, and that she thinks this year will be a good one for 12.

He frowns at it.

It’s an awfully long-winded but useless letter. She could’ve said all this in half a page, but it goes on and on for two.

‘Fuck, Effie,’ he exclaims. His brain’s finally clicked, apparently.

It’s coded.

_He hurt me. I lost a child and I’m paying for it. He’s influencing a friend and our tributes will suffer. I miss you._

Haymitch sucks in a deep breath. How much must she trust him to send this, even though they barely speak? He skips over the first part and focuses on the second for now. If Trinket is influencing a friend, he can only assume Effie is talking about Seneca Crane, who is currently Head Gamemaker, and since the asshole is taking his anger out on his wife, their tributes are most likely going to die pretty early on in the games, or they’re going to go through hell before they die.

But then there’s the first part. The part she didn’t have to mention. What the fuck is Haymitch supposed to do with this information?

He beat Effie to the point where she suffered a fucking _miscarriage_.

The thought of it alone makes his stomach turn.

It does, in fact, turn rather spectacularly when he sees her on Reaping Day, dressed in a blue dress and precariously high stiletto heels, a smile plastered on her face as though absolutely nothing has happened. He vomits all over the stage and almost on himself, the words from the letter echoing inside his head.

She is nineteen.

There are not enough words in the English language — or in any fucking language, actually — to convey his fury.

She seems to have grown a backbone since they last saw each other because she berates him about his appearance and how he’s embarrassed them both in front of the entire nation. He rolls his eyes at her and decides a bottle of vodka will make him feel better.

It does not.

They both miss the Tributes Parade this year; he is too drunk to be coherent and Effie is too busy trying to get him into bed.

Haymitch grabs her arm, tries to be gentle even though he knows her instinct will be to flinch away from him. He is a sad old drunk and he expects nothing less, but despite herself, she turns back to him, waiting for him to speak.

‘Why?’ he croaks. ‘Why me?’

‘You actually seemed to care last year,’ she admits. ‘You heard the words I didn’t say … and that first year I was an escort. You let me go on to you about my stupid wedding even though you could’ve told me to shut up.’

He shakes his head. ‘Nah. I couldn’t have done that. You were the same age as the kids in that arena. Just cause someone puts a ring on your finger doesn’t mean you’ve grown up.’

But even as he says it, he knows it isn’t true. She _has_ grown up.

What other fucking choice did she have?

She isn’t naïve anymore. Or innocent. Both of those things have been ripped from her now. All she has is, well … _him_. Perhaps Finnick, who is more her age anyway. But as far as he knows, they don’t speak to each other, and the District 4 victor is too loved-up to look at any other girl other than his Annie.

* * *

Haymitch doesn’t get much sleep anymore. He used to fall asleep and never get back to sleep if he woke up because of a nightmare, but now he lays awake well past the witching hour, thinking about Effie. _I hope she’s alright_. _Is she sleeping_? _Eating_? _Does she need someone to talk to_? It goes on and on. She doesn’t cry in the shower as much anymore. He doesn’t spend much time hovering outside her door, hoping not to hear her. But he wonders constantly.

They argue now. It’s not really _real_ , he knows that much, but she picks up on his drinking habits easily, criticising them whenever she can. He wonders how much of it is an act, and how much is a genuine concern. Does her husband drink? Should he cut back, just a little?

In the end, he never answers those questions.

* * *

She knocks on his door one night, which is odd — it’s late enough into the Games that their tributes are dead, and usually she goes home when she has no more excuses to stay away from Trinket.

He flicks on a light, opens the door, and is greeted by Effie Trinket in nothing but a silk nightgown. Her hair isn’t bubble-gum pink anymore; instead, it’s blonde, falling down her shoulders and back in soft ringlets. She has her hands clasped together, playing with her fingers as she takes a deep breath.

‘You alright?’ he asks.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she says, grimacing at the shakiness of her own voice. ‘I thought you might still be awake …’ She glances at the empty hallway behind her, but Haymitch can’t tell whether she’s looking for a way out or she’s making sure there’s nobody to eavesdrop on their conversation. ‘I’m sorry to be a bother.’

He raises her eyebrows at her. ‘Don’t be stupid, Eff. You’re not a bother.’ He should offer to let them sit somewhere, ask an Avox for a hot chocolate in the hopes she’ll fall asleep — but his brain has other plans. ‘My room looks like shit but the bed’s still inhabitable if you need somewhere to sleep.’

‘Language,’ she rebukes, but it hardly has the desired effect; she yawns loudly, and Haymitch chuckles. ‘But I don’t mind. I _am_ sick of seeing the same two rooms.’

He isn’t lying; there are clothes strewn upon his floor and empty liquor bottles on his dresser. He wishes she _would_ mind, so he has one last chance to take this all back and he doesn’t have to think about her.

But he _is_ thinking about her. If she turned around now and went back to bed, or she went home, he’d lay awake all night, wondering where she was, if she was tossing and turning too, hoping she was alright.

If Effie cares about the mess, she doesn’t say so. She climbs in the side of the bed that looks less used, and he, in his loose t-shirt and shorts, climbs on the opposite side. She curls up, not facing him; he can see her curls against the pillow in the dim light.

It doesn’t take long for her to fall asleep. Haymitch lays awake, unconsciously turning himself onto his side, trying to adjust to the extra weight in the bed. She’s so _quiet_. He rolls back over, pulling his knife from under his pillow and stuffing it in one of the three drawers in his bedside table. He never thought the day would come where he felt unsafe having it with him, but if he ever hurt her …

His eyes turn back to Effie, his heart thudding against his chest. Oh, God. _Oh, God_.

No.

 _What the fuck, Haymitch? You’re nearly old enough to be her dad._ He closes his eyes. _You’re stupid. You haven’t slept with anyone in twenty years, and the first person isn’t going to be your cute escort. What are you, anyway — some kind of cradle snatcher? She’s twenty. Practically a child._

_You creep. You fucking creep._

He clenches his fists together under the blankets. This whole thing is wrong, anyway. She’s married. He’s an old alcoholic. She’s an escort. He’s a victor.

It’ll crash and burn, he knows it.

But he opens his eyes, stares up at the ceiling, and, for the first time that night, he stops thinking about his dead tributes. Haymitch looks over to her and, despite himself, he leans over to kiss her forehead as she sleeps.

Nobody will ever know that he loves her. It’ll be his secret — and it will keep her safe.


End file.
